March 29th…“TELL US ABOUT ONE OF YOUR EARLY CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS.”

Snuggled among the valley of soft adult coats and shawls is where newborns were often placed on the bed for naps in the sweet days gone by.   When farm neighbors got together for fellowship, it was customary for folk to lay their great coats and other accouterments on the host couple’s bed for safe keeping.  In 1954, that is likely where I first met Davey Mutschler.  Of course, being relegated, at the time, to the drooling drivel of baby sounds, we likely just smiled (from gas) and reached out our pudgy, non-coordinated hands in attempts to touch each other.

In the land of a small drink….Mini Soda….(Minnesota….Hehehe!) I could always count on a wonderful playtime with my farmer boy buddy, Davey.   I can still see his dear grandmother, Genevieve Mutschler, walking with my pal into our small farm kitchen and Davey presenting me with a small green truck on one of my birthdays.   Davey’s toothy grin said it all as he saw the glee on my face from receiving such a kind gift.

Another boon to our nurturing friendship was that we both enjoyed Sundays when our families worshiped at the same church in our hometown.

Many adults touched our lives in that house of worship, but a favorite of mine was dear Mrs. Marlys Jean Stavely Kraus.  Many blessings to her heart and memory.  Mrs. Kraus would lead us young souls in a child-related study of the Word of God during our Sunday School hour and even helped us create an “Open Bible Cutting Board” one year for Vacation Bible School.  Each day, after Vacation Bible School had ended,  Davey Mutschler and I would burn off some energy chasing each other around that quaint church neighborhood after the preacher’s last AMEN was said.    A happy blur flew by of two buzzing little farm boys engulfed in uproarious laughter and could be heard by all as we cavorted in playtime around that church house on Sunday afternoons.   Memories, such as these, bonded my love for my fellow farm neighbor buddy even more.

Eventually, that thing called age caught up with us growing wiggle worms and we two farmer boys had to board the school bus and start attending school in nearby Kiester.   Tiny as we were, in those days, our bus driver (Marie Meyer) assigned three of us youngin’s to one seat.  It was the second or third seat right behind the bus driver, so we knew we’d better behave.  We had no worries, though, Marie Meyer loved me and Davey and cute little Colleen Wiehr as we sat under her watchful gaze via that super wide mirror just above Marie’s head.

As the big, yellow banana of a bus bumped along the gravel roads towards school one day, Colleen Wiehr shocked the two of us seatmates.  She had cut her finger somehow and rather than roll herself up into a little girl crying scene, she did the strangest thing; she stuck her injured finger into her mouth and started sucking the blood.  Davey and I were agog with our eyeballs wide as saucers at viewing this scene.  What really had us quizzically looking at each other was when Colleen pulled that injured finger out of that oral cavity and said, “Yummm, my blood tastes GOOD!!!” 😉

On some happy occasions, I would have the grand joy of making the journey on my bike, or Shetland pony, up to Davey’s farm for a playtime visit.  The Mutschler farm was only about 2 miles to our north, but at my age, it seemed like 20 miles when you’re pumping those small 20″ bicycle pedals a thousand times around and round on a thickly graveled road.   Davey’s mother, Priscilla, was a very lovely blonde-haired lady who welcomed me cordially into their handsome farm home.  Like any little one, I enjoyed being part of the Mutschler kid family for the day as we watched cartoons, enjoyed playing catch, explored their woods, etc. with Davey and his siblings.  I was blessed by this young friend in many ways.

I’m told that the only thing consistent in life is change.  And, that change came in late July of 1967 when my parents sold our farm and began plans to move our family out to Washington State.  I had to say goodbye to my pal that had been so faithful over the years.  It was a sad occasion, but I was determined to ‘keep in touch’ and follow his life via our hometown newspaper and from his beloved grandmother who often called or traveled out to visit us in our new home “out west”.    From what I gleaned, Davey had married his high school sweetheart and followed in the time-honored occupation of his father by pursuing an agricultural career near our dear hometown.  In 1998, I saw my buddy one last time while my family and I were back in Minnesota on vacation.  Now a father and grandfather, Davey had been a blessing to all those he touched with his faithful life and love for others.

“Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his faithful servants” Psalm 116:15 (NIV).  I kept musing upon that Bible verse when I heard of the death of my childhood friend.  Folks can correct me if I’m wrong, but I had heard that my pal was approaching a country intersection and was killed instantly when another driver “T-boned” his vehicle from the side.  It’s been 14 years (as of this writing in 2023) and I still find it hard to comprehend that his fine godly man is not still reading stories to his grandchildren, playing baseball, watching the Minnesota Twins play on TV or working his rich farmland.  I AM, though, so grateful to the Lord above for granting me the pure joy of knowing a dear soul of a man named, David Douglas Mutschler!   He was one of the wonderful blessings of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 28th…“TELL ABOUT AN EXPERIENCE AT A DOCTOR’S OFFICE WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD.”

The rigors of farming often took their toll on my father’s aching back.  To find some relief from the pain, Dad would often make an appointment and then point our family car in the direction of Blue Earth, Minnesota (which happened to be the town of my birth).  Our daddy had full confidence in the treatment he received from the talented hands of a chiropractor there by the name of Dr. Elliott Eugene Collison.

The unique gift this man possessed to adjust my father’s spine was, in every way, extra special in that Dr. Collison was completely blind.  Just think how impressive it would have been for a sighted person to go through schooling to achieve this goal and then to add blindness to that equation makes for a VERY accomplished man.  Our dad spoke so glowingly about this dear person that you’d think Dr. Collison was better than ice cream itself.  Not only did the doctor share his great knowledge in helping our father physically, but Dad also was enamored with Dr. Collison as a person of fine character and a good friend.  This admiration manifested itself in Dad telling the doctor one day, “Doc, if I ever have another son, I’m gonna name him after YOU”!!   

Therefore, when I entered this world in January of 1954, I was christened with the name Elliott.  It was our dad’s way of honoring the fine gentleman who brought him, not only physical relief from suffering, but also an abiding friendship.

As I got a little older (I’d say First Grade age), our daddy decided it was time that I met the man whom I was named after.  So, one evening, after the cows were milked and settled to rest,  my wiggly frame of a boy was invited to climb into our black Buick with Dad and away we drove into the evening sunset on our way to Blue Earth and Dr. Collison’s office.

Being so little, it was hard to comprehend what Dad meant about something called blindness.  I had two eyes that could see pretty darn good, so what was it like to be ‘in the dark’ all the time?   The doctor’s office was located inside of his home residence.  As we entered the doctor’s home and I shook hands with this tall man, we carried on some ‘getting to know you’ time.  Dad then instructed me to have a seat in the patient’s waiting room while the doctor gave Dad his spinal adjustments.

While sitting alone in that waiting room, I noticed that any kind of publication, whether book or magazines, were VERY LARGE in comparison to what I was used to at our family home or in my Kindergarten/First Grade classroom at school.  What really puzzled me, though, was that, other than a printed title on the front page, all the other pages in these publications were BLANK with ‘bumps’ on the paper.  No words or pictures or photos!!!   So strange, thought my little mind!!!

Our father was a voracious reader and received a LITTLE magazine at our farm home called “The Reader’s Digest”.  It was a small magazine measuring about 5″ by 7″ in size.  Dr. Collison’s “Reader’s Digest” was humongous and must have measured at least 14″ across by about 18″ long!!!  Now my little boy brain really began to churn to understand why that GIANT magazine had not ONE word or ONE photo inside???

When the two men came out of the examining room, I quickly ran up to Dad and told him of my ‘discovery’.  “Heyyyy Dad, these books are no good!!!  And there’s something wrong with these magazines, too!!  They don’t have even ONE picture and there’s NO words!!! Just a bunch of BUMPS all over the pages!!”  Thanks to the wisdom of their years and kind patience with this tiny whippersnapper, both Dad and Dr. Collison busted out laughing as my father gently ushered me out the front door of that quaint doctor’s home and towards our car for the trip home to our farm.  For this lil munchkin, the evening had been a new chapter in the lessons of life and learning that not all people see with their eyes, like I did, yet were VERY astute as to life around them.  The dear doctor was blind, that’s true, but it was a very EYE OPENING experience for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 27th…“WHAT TYPES OF WORDS DID YOUR PARENTS USE TO TRY TO CALM YOUR YOUNG FEARS?”

Within the thunder’s cacophony of violent volume would appear fierce flashes of lightning in excruciating brilliance, forcing these little eyes of mine to snap closed in absolute fear!!!!

Only the Lord, Himself, knew why the farmlands of Minnesota seemed to be a magnet for powerful weather of all sorts; summer time, especially!!  When dark cloud rumblings started in the distance, my little heart began to go pitter patter for anticipating what would soon be upon us and right over our heads.  Sure enough, what started as a distant rumble eventually reached its crescendo with explosions right over our farm home that rivaled any artillery of any army on the face of the earth.

With the wisdom of their many years on earth, my dear parents tried to communicate, to this terrified little toddler, in terms that might help a tiny boy’s finite mind comprehend the happenings just outside our farm home’s walls.

By this time of my young life, I had experienced some fun times at our local bowling alley and remembered the loud sound of a STRIKE against the bowling pins.  As a result, I could almost understand when Mom or Dad would try to calm me by saying, “Don’t worry, Elliott, that sound you hear is just God and His angels bowling in Heaven and God just got a STRIKE!!!”.  

To help quell my fears of the lightning, during these fear episodes, our parents brought up the family times of when numerous aunts or uncles would bring out their old flash cameras that used these giant bulbs that lit up the room when that shutter button was pressed in order to take a photograph.  As the ebony night around us was charged to daylight in a split second of lightning, Mom or Dad would say, “Relax, Elliott, that’s just God taking a photograph outside with His GIANT flash camera!!!”.  To this day, I’m grateful for the gentle ways that were employed by our parents to quiet the fears of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 26th...”DO YOU HAVE ANY OTHER GOOD STORIES ABOUT BEING INJURED?”

I envision this big magnet located by inside my whatzelnipper and alongside my glamwackeedoodler.  This magnet pulls accidents to me like hees to boney…….errr, umm, I mean bees to honey 😉   I’m an Olympic accident on the hoof.   To describe this cacophony of yowsers in my life, I wrote a silly poem called, “Pobody’s Nerfect” (get it?  Nobody’s Perfect?…hehehehe )

POEM – “Pobody’s Nerfect” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Pobody’s nerfect, Especially me,

I’ve been this way, Since I’d say three.

It’s a minor miracle, That I’m still here,

Considering the courses, I did steer.

There were many times, Back on the farm,

My given name, Should have been “HARM”.

You’d be amazed, At the stunts I’d pull,

Like my blood poisoned feet, Or shooting the bull.

Bull weren’t too happy with what I did,

Cause I was a mean widdo kid,

I had BB rifle, Aimed just right,

In the place that made him, Wanna fight!

If it weren’t for the solid, Fence back home,

I wouldn’t be here, a’writin’ this poem.

Then there’s the lawnmower, With which I played tag,

Except my fingers, It decided to snag.

I’ve fallen from hay mows, And cracked my head,

It’s amazing that, I ain’t yet dead.

Once while tripping, O’er my toes,

I went the way, That gravity goes.

T’was in the school gymnasium,

I busted wide my cranium.

The doc said, “One more blow like that,

T’will make him less, Than dog or cat!”

So just be thankful, Yer as good as ya are,

Cause I’m amazed, I’ve got THIS far!!! 😉

March 25th…“DID YOU EVER SUFFER AN INJURY SEVERE ENOUGH THAT IT REQUIRED STITCHES?”

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  Just as a single gem stone has many facets, so also can one incident in life have other perspectives to share about.  So is the case in this little story poem.  True, other entries in this gentle saga dealt with losing a finger in the riding lawnmower……this little facet focuses on the part of needing stitches.

POEM – “A Shorter Wave” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Back in the day, T’was in a hurry,

As riding mower, And I did scurry,

Too fast to take, A second to think,

Made a bad decision, In half a wink.

That buzzing sound, Was my fingers caught,

Being in place, They shouldn’t have ought,

So off to the hospital, Ambulance flew,

Finger in baggie, That looked peeyoo!!

Dr. Bump said, “Kid, if I sew it back on”,

“T’won’t be any feeling, Cause that’s all gone.”

So he snapped off some bone, To gain some skin,

Then pulled it on over, Let the stitching begin.

So now little x’s, Marked the spot,

Where once was finger, That now is shot.

Ever since on lawnmowers, I do behave,

As I greet my friends, With a shorter wave 😉

March 24th…“HOW DID YOU EARN YOUR OWN SPENDING MONEY ON THE FARM IN MINNESOTA DAYS?”

A tincture of happy green envy must’ve literally glowed from my little boy face as I’d gaze over each page and dream about all the toys I wanted to have out of that well-worn catalog.  My three favorite adults each year were Mr. Sears, Mr. Montgomery Ward and Mr. Spiegel…..for each of those gentlemen sent their catalogs to our farm home FOR FREE!!! 😉

With money being scarce on our farm, our hardworking parents gifted us kids a mere $.25 cents per week to use for spending money when we’d all go to our hometown of Kiester on Saturday evenings for the “Lucky Bucks” drawing.   For me, though, when there were Tonka trucks and other toy goals in my “I just gotta have it” little mind, wellll, that twenty five cents a week just wasn’t gonna make those dreams come true fast enough.  I just HAD to find a way to earn more money.

One day, our dear father, Russell, said, “Son, if you wanna earn your own money, I’d recommend trapping gophers for the bounty money from their front claws!!”  Minnesota (and other Midwest States, I’m sure) were the home of the Plains Pocket Gopher.   This rodent received its name from the fur lined pockets that resided on each cheek.   This subterranean sleuth would fill those pockets with soil as he’d tunnel beneath the earth.  When he’d come “topside”, those massive front claws of his would then evict that soil from those cheek pockets and he’d return to the dark underworld for his continued excavating adventures (as well as eating tasty roots).   This underground rascal was considered a pest and dangerous for a couple of reasons:  1.  Crops were hindered or destroyed as he’d forage on their roots from under the ground.  2.  The very act of his tunneling also proved hazardous due to his surface holes that he created every so many feet across a field.  Livestock that would be grazing in his area were more focused on the next munch of grass than where they should put their next 1,500 pound footstep.  Unknowingly, some cows would step into the gopher’s hole either injuring or breaking a leg.  This type of incident incurred high veterinarian bills for either treatment to the leg or having the animal “put out of its misery” with euthanasia (killing the animal by injection or gunshot).  This was a loss of hundreds of dollars to farmers plus the sadness of losing one of our animal “friends”.

As a result of this underground tyrant’s mischief, Faribault County created a bounty price for eliminating as many of these rodents from our area as possible.  In this case, a “bounty” was a gift reward from the local county government if someone would trap and kill these lil troublemaker, animal ‘criminals’.  Our Faribault County Agent (Charlie Heitzeg) would pay anyone $.10 cents for each front claw of a Plains Pocket Gopher or $.02 cents for the tail of a Striped Gopher.  “Hot DOG!”, I thought…….”The more gopher claws, the more MONEY!!”

Any time spent with our dad, of course, was priceless for me!  This day was to be one of those golden moments as he taught me how to locate the “front door” of a gopher mound and then how to remove the loose soil down to the “Y” in the burrow below ground.

Once Dad and I located the intersection of “Mr. Pocket’s” underground highway, then was the time I’d excavate about a 2″ depression into the “floor” so that my expanded and “set to kill” steel trap could lay below the “runway” level of the tunnel.  In order to hide the scent of the steel trap and my human hands, Dad taught me how to gently sift some soft soil over the top of the trap that made it smell like the rest of “Mr. Pocket’s” underground thoroughfare.   Hopefully, now, the gopher would think all was well in his world as he’d come scurrying along later.  A chain (with a ring on the end) was attached to the trap.  That chain was brought up above ground level and a stake was driven through the ring and tightly into the soil where we stood.  This way, when the trap snapped,  ol’ “Pockets” couldn’t drag my trap with him into the depths of the earth.  In order to make the rodent think all was well, Dad showed me how to take small boards, grass or other material to re-cover the hole and then pile soil on top of that to once again replicate the black darkness down below that was normal for the gophers natural world beneath mine.

With extra traps hooked over the saddle horn and a burlap bag of gear, I would climb on-board my faithful Shetland friend, “Little Lady” and away we’d ride, mornings and evenings, to check the trap line for any gopher catches that day.  When we’d approach a trap site, I’d dismount from the saddle to either tie off my pony to a fence, or just let her graze next to me as I’d pull away the cover and look inside the gopher hole.  On most occasions, if a kill had occurred “down under”, I’d pull the dead gopher from the hole and release it from the trap.

After cutting off the front two claws, I’d drop them into a salt-filled, glass Mason jar to put on hold till a later date of cashing them in at Charlie Heitzeg’s farm.  The reason for the salt was this…..our wise daddy spoke from his own boyhood days experience, so he strongly suggested that I pack those dead gopher claws into the jar with salt around them.  Salt is a natural preservative to help keep down the stench from the natural rotting process that would occur over time.  Now, to do the right thing,  it was time to slide the body of “Mr. Pockets” back down into his hole for a proper burial and I’d cover the hole with dirt.

On occasion, things got a bit exciting on the trap line when I’d pull a LIVE gopher from his hole as he’d hiss and snap at me with all his little might.  A quick KABONG to his head with a club put him out of his misery and I’d then “harvest” his claws for my collection.   The strangest times, on the trap line, were when I’d uncover a gopher hole to find only ONE claw in the trap.  The gopher, out of desperation, had chewed off his own foot to try to survive.  Likely he bled to death in his underground domain, and I only received $.10 cents from that experience.

Once that big, glass Mason jar was packed full of claws and/or Striped Gopher tails, it was time to ride “Little Lady” up the gravel road to Charlie Heitzeg’s farm.  As you recall, Charlie was the County Agent in our area that had the power to pay out for the bounty on these trapping treasures I’d bring.  There we were, under the giant shade tree by his house.  Charlie would unleash the cap of that VERY smelly Mason jar and pour all those rotting claws and tails onto the ground.  To distance himself from the putrid nature of those items, Charlie found a very long stick as he’d count out those former body parts of them ‘criminal’ gophers.  As my little boy eyes anticipated my “millions”, our dear neighbor, in the spangled shade of that tree, then brought out his checkbook to write me a check for as much as $5.00 or even $7.00 dollars.  YEEEHAWWW, thought I…….I’m rich!!!  So thought this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 23rd…“DID YOU EVER BREAK A BONE, OR BONES.  TELL US HOW.”

POEM – “Pain Is A Messy Teacher” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Two YOWSA instances, Come to mind,

When life to me, T’weren’t very kind.

In Nineteen Hundred and Seventy Four,

This 20 year buck, Just out the door,

Tried to stop, A trampoline,

That came my way, And started to lean,

Upon my hand, And broke two bones,

I hollered LOUD, And made some moans.

Then came 1981,

While riding a mower, This son of a gun,

Decided to try, And stop the blade,

So mincemeat of, My hand it made!

Finger tip gone, Another one broke,

Life changed quick, In one fell stroke,

Pain is one heckuva messy teacher,

Especially when dealing, With a Norski creature. 😉

March 22nd…“DESCRIBE A CHORE ON THE FARM THAT ALSO TAUGHT YOU A LIFE LESSON OF BETTER CHARACTER TRAITS.”

POEM – “The Mad Midget Manure Mangler” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Pitching manure, With my Dad, When I was a young, And learnin’ lad.

We’d fork and shovel, That ooooey gooo, Into a half round barrel who,

We’d roll on track, From barn to loo, T’wood make most folk, To say PEEYEW!!

And then it reached, The spreader where, We’d pull trip cord, And dump it there.

Then tractor’d pull, That fragrant pile, Of cow and bull, To the field awhile.

Then there were times, With fork of five tines,

We’d clean calf pens, Dad’d hear my whines,

As my fork would snag, On twines I’d left,

Leaving me crying,  And so bereft.

While ranting, “I CAN’T!”, My dad spoke up,

Said, “Listen HERE!, You little pup!”,

“There just ain’t no, Such word as can’t!”,

“Whether you be uncle, Or even aunt”,

“For these here troubles, It’s all your blame”, 

“Cause if you’d followed, My order’s aim”,

“These twines would never, Be right here”,

“Now keep on forkin’, And dry that tear!”

**********************************************************

Epilogue:  Whether it was a proclivity to procrastinate, a childhood paradigm shift of learning, or just a plain lazy little stinker……..this poem of silliness found its genesis in that fact that our dear farmer father had wisely told me about the need to properly bed down our calf pens with new, clean bales of straw.  “Be sure to take the two strands of twine with you OUT OF THE PEN”, he’d say to me.   “Awww, heck, whadda dads know anyway!”…I thought to myself.    So, I’d just cut open the bales, kick the straw around the pen and leave the twines.  Later, when the straw was “soiled” and time for removal, those twines came back to haunt both me AND my dad as we struggled for each forkful of manure that snagged on twines that THIS bad boy had left behind.  A life lesson learned the hard way for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 21st…“DESCRIBE A FARM CHORE YOU HAD AS A CHILD.”

Proverbs Chapter 1, Verse 8  “Listen, my son, to your father’s instructions……..” and that’s just what we Noorlun children did.  Welll, when it came to this ornery third born….most of the time 😉  But overall, my big brother and two sisters knew that it was just a normal part of family responsibility to “listen to our father’s instructions” and help work on our farm.  The root meaning of the word, chore, comes from the Old English word, char, which boils down to “odd job”.   When it came to seeing our animals fed twice a day, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year…….now there was nothing ODD about that……THAT was important.

Our wise father decided that some of his corn fields were to remain intact until the stalks and ears dried to a golden yellow in the fall harvest of field corn.  The remaining fields of corn were taken and ground up fine, while still young and green, for what’s called silage to feed our animals over the long winter still to come.

Tractors and their wagons full of silage made many, many trips to our silo and unloaded their green cargo into a giant blower fan that shot the loose silage up, up, up a long tube and fell down into our silo.  When the silo was full, we were now ready to let ‘Old Man Winter’ bring on his winds, cause our dear animals now had lots of food as they cozied up in our barn which lay in the shadow of that silo.

Here’s where my chore for the family came into play.  Daily, it was my job (or whoever Dad assigned) to climb the very tall, silo chute ladder to the top of the silo and then crawl through the doorway into the silo, itself.  My job?  Take the silage fork and toss down enough silage to feed the cows for that morning or evening’s feeding.

Staring up in amazement into a cylindrical slice of blue sky from inside our silo, I could see fluffy white clouds skidding quickly across the aperture of my farm-boy domain.  The prairie winds blew those white vapor-puffs past the cement orifice so fast, that the optical illusion of the silo ‘falling over’ would make me dizzy and I’d lose my balance temporarily.  I felt the need to steady myself on the handle of the silage fork in my hand that was stuck firmly into the silage.  Seven days a week, it was my task (or Dad, or big brother) to forge my way through our handsome old barn and enter a small room that linked the barn to our very tall, cement-block silo.

My young legs and arms worked in unison as I climbed higher and higher within an enclosed ladder/tunnel that led to the highest open door of this cement block repository of green delights that our cows enjoyed for their meals.  Since our silo had no roof, the frigid temperatures of winter and its snows would oftentimes freeze the layers of silage down as much as two feet deep in permafrost as SOLID as a rock!  In order to release the green gold of cow food beneath that frozen grip, I would take my pickaxe and slam the pointed end into that frozen maize to break it up enough to then take our large silage fork and scoop forkfuls of silage down the tunnel I had just come through to get way up here.  On some winter’s evenings, with crystalline stars sparkling above the round silo opening, I’d take a rest from forking and just drink in the magic of the twilight as I’d glance down the ladder tunnel to see the golden glow of the barn lights below me.  Heat, from the many bovine bodies down there would fly up the tunnel ladder and warm the numbness of my half-frozen cheeks while Bobby Vinton could be heard singing “Blue Velvet” over Dad’s barn radio.

Even with our barn doors closed against the blast of winter’s assailing winds, there ofttimes were whistling gusts of air that would filter through the barn and then fly up the narrow tube of the ladder tunnel and into the silo where I was working.  There was a quick lesson for me, early on, as I made the mistake of standing right in front of the silo door as I tossed my forkful of silage into the the chute opening, only to have MOST of it blown right back into my face!!!   I quickly learned to stand off to the side of that square portal and THEN toss that silage down the long tunnel to the bottom of the ladder.

When a sizeable pile of this ground up corn lay at the bottom of the silo’s tunnel, I would then climb down and begin filling our metal bushel basket with that green gold.  Each bushel basket was then carried out of the silo room and placed on top of the manger railing to slide down the line for feeding each of our 15 head of Holstein milk cows (and other livestock, too).  Within the confines of that long wooden manger, one could hear the lowing of the cows as they marvelously munched the maize brought to them by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 20th…“WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER AS YOUR FAVORITE TIME OF THE YEAR AND WHY?”

The earth was yielding her fruited harvest to us and the trees became giant flowers in spectacular, breathtaking hues………yes, the season of fall captured my heart when it came to being a favorite time of the year to find pleasures for this farm boy.  Of course, every season shares their magical wonders to us, but that one special point on the calendar of yearly life held many facets of the “jewel” it was for me to enjoy.

Harvest time, on our farm, took center stage each autumn.  Of the many agricultural plantings that our parents gleaned from God’s dear soil, corn was the crop that held a major role in feeding our livestock of cows, hogs, horses, chickens, etc..  Dad had an old Farmall F-20 tractor that he kept dedicated to reside inside the enfoldment of a two row International Harvester corn picker.   It was hard to say which was older, the corn picker, or that old Farmall F-20, yet they both rose to the challenge of harvest each year, so we were grateful.

There was little, if any, muffler to quiet the sound of that 1930’s generation of tractor, so everybody knew when it was time for the corn harvest to begin as Dad sparked that old “beast” to life.  It was always easy to know which field Dad was in as he was picking corn; all you had to do was step outside the door of our farm home and hear the GROWL of the F-20 “beast” as it fueled the raw power to the corn picker.   In the pristine clarity of that crisp, fall air, the unmistakable fragrance of the field corn permeated the entire farmyard and had a delicious distinction all its own……so pleasant, yet difficult to describe.

Sometimes, in the lull of the busy harvest activities, a wagon load of field corn would sit idle on our farm yard.  In these older days of harvesting corn, the ears of corn were plucked whole from the stalk of the corn plant (unlike the shelled corn of today).  The mountain of maize piled high in that wagon looked like a fun playground for my little sister and I to climb to the top and explore.  We were giddy with glee as we played among the thousands of ears of corn that awaited the conveyor that would auger them up and into the tall, metal mesh corncrib where the harvest would dwell over the winter months.  Children are often innocently ignorant of life’s dangers and, on that day, this adventure was almost deadly for this farm boy.  I recall crawling to the corner of the wagon and I began to excavate ears of corn out of the way so that I could snuggle deeper and deeper into what almost became my tomb.  There I was, digging myself further into that wagon corner when suddenly……the corn load shifted and hundreds of pounds of ear corn slid up against me and trapped me tight.  I was cemented (so to speak) by that corn and panic set in quickly.  It was even becoming hard to breath as the corn pushed against my chest.  Thank the Lord,  my darling sister came to the rescue in speedily grabbing and throwing ears of corn away from my compressed body.  I, too, was flipping ears of corn away from this predicament as fast as I could.  The combined wild tossing of those ears of corn eventually allowed me just enough wiggle room to pull myself from what could have been a literally crushing situation.

Eventually, through the faithful work of Dad and his crew, our amber harvest of marvelous maize made its way into our wire corncribs.    After a time of drying, a grinding company from Kiester would come out to the farm to grind these ears of corn to a finer meal that our animals could easily chew and enjoy.

As if spectators to us mortals and our harvesting, our age old windbreak of deciduous trees were ablaze in their gigantic mantle of fall color.  Their “grand finale” of the season’s growth was taking place around us as each tree’s brilliant hues were set in glorious contrast against an azure-blue sky.  God’s enormous bouquets of orange, red, bright yellow and mellow gold were on display for us humans to ponder upon as the magic passing of another season was before our very eyes.  Like a curtain closing the act of a beautiful play, winter’s winds would soon strip the petals of these crisp “flowers” and usher in the next season of rest and cold for our rich Minnesota farmland.  These are but a few of the reasons why autumn has been my favorite season as I relish each year of life God has given to this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.